


Fair Weather and Foul

by moonflowers



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Again, Alfred Hamilton is awful, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Getting Together, In which James has a lot of jumpers, M/M, Misunderstandings, One tiny mention of past Thomas and Miranda, POV Alternating, Scenery Porn, artist james, mentions of Max/Anne - Freeform, yes that's getting its own tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 05:56:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12336828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: After falling out with his father, Thomas spends some time in the family's holiday home by the sea.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've started another WIP I hate myself.  
> Just a tiny intro chapter to start off with because I'm impatient, the rest should be a bit lengthier. Title from Treasure Island.

Thomas didn't like green tea. Anything that didn't have milk and two sugars was a waste of time, in his opinion. Forest fruits, ginger and lemon, raspberry and echinacea or some other such nonsense, it didn't matter. They all just left a grassy aftertaste of wet leaves that made the back of his throat feel thick. And yet there he was, holding a scaldingly hot mug of green tea with peppermint, because he'd had a fantastically awful time of it and just wanted the comforting feeling of warm china between his hands. The mood he was in, he could have done with something stronger, but all that was in the cupboard of his father's barely used and disconcertingly sterile holiday home was the sodding green tea. 

He was standing by the window, looking out at the million pound view without really seeing it, because after a quick walk around the house with the intent of re-learning its layout, he'd remembered how much he disliked it. He'd visited once before, when his father was still considering buying the place some years ago - with the intention of renting it out for obscene amounts of money rather than for personal use - and his mother had pestered him into taking Thomas too. At the time he'd thought it a monstrosity; cold, impersonal, and at complete odds with the dark and rugged landscape it was carved into. No wonder his father had felt such a strong pull to it. Despite Thomas' thoughts on the house, Alfred had bought it, as Thomas had known he would, and then proceeded to not do a thing with it. On being reunited with the place on a dismal Wednesday in October, Thomas found his opinion of it much the same - a great hulking creature of glass and metal, a theoretically elegant and over-aware modern mess cut into the cliffside. 

It was almost dark outside, the dreary, dreamlike greyness of a wintry afternoon before it lengthened into evening proper. The cliffs on the other side of the harbour loomed black and shadowed, the few trees clinging to the scree thrown about by the wind. It was impossible to tell where the sky and sea met; both the same shade of grey blurred by cloud and seaspray, water choppy and frothed with grimy white where it battered against the harbour walls. Beyond them, the village itself looked far more welcoming. There were strings of fairy lights up along the three more sheltered sides of the harbour, facing out to sea. The mismatched rows of stout little cottages each glowed with their own cheery orange lights from the windows, restaurants and pub cosily busy, tight-knit groups of people huddled smoking outside the doors. For a moment, Thomas wished he was among them, but truthfully he was in no mood to be civil, never mind friendly. Irritated with himself, he looked away from them and back across to the harbour's mouth. A lone man was there, bundled up in a heavy-looking coat and boots. He heaved a mess of scattered lobster crates into a stack, sheltered from the wind, before stomping along the wall and back towards the village. The gloomy afternoon enveloped him, and Thomas was left with the childish but still unnerving question of if he'd even been there at all. 

Whether Thomas was glad to be in the house or not, he hadn't yet decided. It was a relief to be away from everything, but he certainly wasn't happy about the circumstances in which he was staying there. He'd... had a rough few months.  
His mother was ill, and his father was ten times worse for it. It'd made working with the man near unbearable, and Thomas had had over three decades of practice living with him to thicken his skin. When Thomas had finally lost patience and told him he wanted out, it went about as well as he'd expected. That is to say, very badly. His father had told him not to be stupid - what use was Hamilton and Son's without the son? And it wasn't as though Thomas was ever going to give him any grandsons to carry it on either, so really, what was the point? That was an old argument and one that Thomas had a certain amount of immunity to, but on top of everything else, it had hardly helped. He was apoplectic, telling Thomas he wasn't thinking straight; that worry for his mother had made him unfit to work, that he needed some time away for his own benefit. He wouldn't drop the subject until Thomas had agreed to pack himself off down to the coast for a while 'for his health.' And the worst of it was, Miranda agreed with him. Not the majority of it of course, she'd never be so cruel nor so stupid as that, and Thomas believed she would disagree with anything Alfred Hamilton said on principal alone, but she was almost as determined as his father to see that he took a break. She probably would have been there with him in fact, and drinking something decidedly more fun, if it weren't for her own job having her by the throat. 

It was a miserable start, yes. But Thomas was an optimist, and very much hoped that his unlooked for holiday would provide him with something more than a sense over-dramatic melancholy and a sharpened dislike for green tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hint: It's James.  
> Nobody mention how similar this is going to be to my last fic yeah? Great.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boys get off to a bumpy start.  
> 

The next morning dawned thin and grey, light creeping pale around the curtains and under the door and prodding him awake. The fact that everything in the damned house was also either grey or white did little to cheer the place up, and Thomas immediately stuck his head back under the covers to avoid it. But after a brief internal struggle over whether he wanted to sleep in longer or not, he decided it would be of no benefit, as he was already awake and too grumpy to settle again. The slate floors were too cold under his feet, the sleek, fitted furniture too stark. But as much as he disliked the house, he had no real intention of leaving it that day. Though after he'd showered and stumbled into the kitchen he realised he would have to - there was nothing in it to eat. He never was much of a cook, nor was he really in a place where he felt like making much of a culinary effort, but he could have done with some bread at the very least, and some proper sodding tea. And perhaps something alcoholic. 

Leaving the house made him feel better, as it turned out. Though the morning was a grey one, it was clear and bright, and the wind had died down to barely a whisper. The sea was flat and the tide out, leaving numerous little boats tilted on their sides on the thick sludgy sand between the harbour walls. Gulls flew overheard, calling to each other and eyeing up the people below in hope of something to scavenge. The village itself was busy too, with what he assumed to be a local market day. Stalls lined the edge of the harbour, each selling produce from nearby farms or businesses, regional cheeses and what have you, fruit and veg, soaps and jewellery and fudge. And, to his particular delight, a stall selling nothing but a locally made gin. He ended up getting a bit of everything for sheer novelty and on a happy, impulsive whim. A few of the stall owners looked at him with curiosity, but all were friendly enough, and happy to chat when they realised he was going to make a purchase. 

The very last stall on the left was selling fish. Thomas' eye skimmed briefly over the ice and glinting scales, before coming to rest on the proprietor. And that was where it stopped, because good God, he was a wonder. Thomas wasn't even sure what types of fish he was selling or how to cook them, but he was certainly going to be buying some anyway, because he _needed_ to talk to that man. He had lovely red hair, tied back from his face as he went about his work, a rather deep frown, and a dark green thick knit jumper that Thomas wanted to bury his face in. First things first though - talking. 

"Hello," he said with a smile.

The man looked up at him and his face cleared, mouth no longer turned down and brow uncreased. He stared openly at Thomas for a few long moments, a large silvery fish in hand, before he spoke. "Do I know you?"

"I don't believe so," Thomas said, and knowing it was more than the situation called for, stuck out his hand. "I'm Thomas."

The man raised an eyebrow at him, looking doubtfully at the fish he was still holding, before setting it aside to shake Thomas' hand. His palm was cool, damp from the ice and the fish. "James." 

"Pleasure."

"You've... not been here long, then?" James' voice was low and a little rough. Thomas got the impression he was a man of few words.

"Oh dear, is it so obvious?" Thomas said, and James gave him a twitching half-shrug that clearly meant a resounding yes. _Oh Lord, was that an ear piercing?_ Thomas was undone. "I arrived last night. And promptly realised there was nothing at all in the cupboards." He held up the paper bag containing his morning's purchases.

"I see you've met Jack," James nodded at the bottle of gin poking out of the top.

"Yes," Thomas said, assuming that to be the name of the particularly talkative man with the rather loud scarf who'd sold it to him.

"Mm. We're not all like that, I promise."

They chatted a while longer, banal pleasantries really, but Thomas was enjoying himself - it gave him the chance to study James. He seemed polite enough, but cautious, like a fox when something encroached on the edges of its territory. But then Thomas made some ridiculous comment about crabs that made him burst into startled laughter, and it was _wonderful._

"On holiday?" James said when it had passed, eyes still creased with good humour. 

"Of sorts," Thomas said, amused at his reaction, "you must be used to that."

"We get our fair share of tourists." He supposed they must; holidaying within the UK was just as popular as going abroad, these days. James pushed up the sleeves of his jumper, and Thomas tried not to be too obvious in his admiration of his forearms.

"I suppose it is a holiday, if a rather extended one." And one he didn't entirely wish to take, but there was no need to air all his dirty laundry to someone he'd just met, as lovely as they may be. Nor did he want to risk insulting James' home by saying he never wanted to be there to begin with.

"Where are you staying?"

"A house belonging to my father," he turned to nod towards it, lurking sharp and cruel up the side of the cliff. "I don't much - "

"Up there?" James said sharply, expression bypassing the grim frown he'd worn earlier and going straight to outrage. "You're _Hamilton's_ son?"

"I - yes," Thomas said stupidly, caught off guard by such a vehement reaction.

Once he had the confirmation, James shut down instantly. "If you'll excuse me, Mr Hamilton," he said stonily, mouth curling unkindly around the name, "I'm very busy."

"I'm sorry?" Thomas said, not willing to let it slide quite so easily, "I'd be the first to admit that my father has his faults, but I'm afraid I've no idea what he could have done to earn such ire from you."

"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't," James said with a sneer, "it's people like him ruining our housing market by buying up everything as holiday lets like that fucking eyesore," - Thomas felt suddenly defensive of the ugly house he was living in - "that get used twice a year and sit empty for the rest. Kids down here can't afford to move out of their parents houses for God's sake."

"Don't mind him," a woman appeared at Thomas' side before he could muster up an answer. "I for one, know that sins of the father are not always those of the son." She gave James one last meaningful look before turning back to Thomas. "I'm Max," she shook his hand. 

"Thomas."

"I know," she led him, slightly stunned, away from a still glowering James. "He'll calm down eventually. Come, I'll show you around."

She was as good as her word, taking Thomas on a walk around the edge of the harbour, her heels clicking on the stone and Thomas shifting his heavy bag of shopping between his arms. As they went, she stopped to point out key places; the pub, the small supermarket, and the post office among them, and introduced him to few people in passing. She asked just as many questions as she answered, obviously weighing him up, but smiling all the while. Thomas found he didn't mind all that much, she was pleasant enough company, and he had nothing to hide - he was beginning to think everyone in the village somehow knew about his father anyway. Max had actually _met_ him, the poor woman. Thomas didn't even want to think on how that might have gone, though she seemed more than capable of handling herself. 

"You know an awful lot about the place," Thomas said when they were almost back to where they started. He watched a seagull hop along a roof covered with yellow lichen, little pinprick eyes on the contents of Thomas' bag, before it flapped off to try its luck elsewhere.

"I should hope so," Max looked pleased. "It's my business to know - I own two of the restaurants, a cafe, the wine bar, and shares in a handful of other things," she waved her hand as if it was nothing. "And I operate an online lingerie shop, but that's neither here or there," she winked. 

After agreeing to let her know if there was anything else he needed, and to meet up for a drink soon, Max and Thomas parted ways, and he went back up to the house feeling a lot better about things than he had done that morning. Despite that, he couldn't help toying with the tiny, niggling annoyance of something being out of place. That something was his rather one-sided argument with a man he'd just met, and that he hadn't been given the chance to set right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I'm a grade A fluff-pedlar, it won't last long.  
> Yeah I'm bitter about the property market. And that is a comment I never thought I'd be leaving on a fic.
> 
> General question - do people prefer to have all the tags for a fic there right from the start so they know what's coming, or have them added later on because spoilers. There's nothing overly bad or traumatic, just plot points.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switching it up to James' PoV. This chapter's tiny, but I'm afraid little and often is how I get through things quickest.  
> Also I think I've pretty much got the plot down, hence all the sudden added tags. Thanks to Lena, for some help in figuring out where James' artistic abilities lie :)

"His father's a bastard, I'll give you that," Gates said as he finished off his pint, "after all that business you went through with him. But aside from being unlucky enough to have a rotten father, what's this bloke ever done to you?"

"Nothing," James conceded, sighing into his own glass. "He told me his name, and I just..." he shrugged. Gates had witnessed James' tendency to let his temper get the better of him enough times to understand the implication. James was surprised he was still willing to share a pint with him, frankly, after all the times they'd butted heads, but then he supposed that very thing made him a friend.

"You're too bloody hotheaded," the harbour master said, but it was with fondness, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth, "it ain't always a bad thing, mind, when the situation calls for it. But don't let it bugger up everything else."

James snorted. "That's very useful and specific advice, thank you."

"You're welcome. And your round, I believe," Gates pointedly waved his empty glass.

James rolled his eyes, but signalled to get Idelle to pour him another. She did so, quick and tidy and throwing them a wink. Thanks to her efficiency at drawing pints, her quick wit, and tendency to wear sparkly tops that left little to the imagination, the pub was nearly always busy. 

"Thanks love," Gates took a sip before setting the glass aside, folded his hands on the table top. "So, were you right?"

"About what?"

_"Is_ he like his father? The Hamilton bloke?"

"No," James said grimly, "nothing at all." He'd known it; even as he'd spouted all his old anger at the unsuspecting man who'd made some sly remark about crabs that had James barking out a surprised laugh, he'd already known he was a better man than his arsehole of a father.

"I rather liked him," Jack spoke up from where he was leaning against the bar and not bothering to hide the fact he was listening in.

"Only because he bought your sodding gin," James threw back. There went his hopes of quietly wringing out his woes with Gates as the only witness, now Jack had invited himself into the conversation. "And who asked you, for fuck's sake."

"Precisely," Jack ignored the second part, "a man of excellent taste, clearly, and sharp enough to keep up with me. Charles, what say you?"

Charles barely looked up from whatever it was he was brooding over that day, slouched against the bar and idly turning a beer mat over between his fingers. "I honestly couldn't care less."

Jack wasn't deterred. "Anne?"

She shrugged from where she stood to his other side. "None of my business. Max said he's nice." James liked Anne, though he couldn't honestly claim to know all that much about her. She didn't over complicate things.

"So, naturally, you agree," Jack tutted. "I see."

"Oh for fuck's sake you two - "

Fortunately for James' already frayed nerves, Gates cut in before the three of them could fall into their habitual bickering to ask after their latest rescue. On top of their day jobs, Charles, Jack and Anne were part of the volunteer coastguard crew, and though the tourist season was over, they were still called out often enough to keep them busy. 

"We've had better," Charles said flatly.

"Anne almost punched one of the teenagers we rescued," Jack added, with his typical mix of exasperation and pride over almost everything she did.

Anne was indignant. "The little fuck had it coming. He told me to get my - " 

"Yes well, I didn't say he didn't deserve it," Jack said, and patted her arm, one of the few people she'd permit to make such a gesture without kneeing them in the balls, "though it was likely he had concussion."

"It was their own fault," Charles said, "idiots should have known better than to fuck about with inflatables in the sea when the weather's fucking rough."

"And yet year after year, despite the obvious warnings and plain common sense, people still do it," Jack said, and Charles grumbled something in reply. Too many people lost their lives over something so simple as not knowing the tide times, or the steepness of the cliffs. James sometimes wondered if it was the danger that kept him there, had drawn them all there; the changeable seas, calm and friendly one moment, then rushing and relentless the next, as if they all needed to be near the vast and unpredictable weight of the sea to feel alive. 

The thought of it made the pub feel suddenly stuffy, too warm, and his head thick from the beer. With a nod, he left Gates to cheerily keep the three of them from each other's throats, and took himself for a walk into the gloom of early evening.

It was a view James had seen countless times - the harbour down to his left and the beach away to the right, cliffs towering and pockmarked, their highest points blurred with mist and gulls fading in and out of the murk. And before him the sea; today choppy and churning, restless and impatient, a constant presence and yet never the same as the day before. He needed it to ground him, remind him of his own smallness. When something left him feeling angitated or hard done by, he could walk up to the top of the cliffs and look out at the water, and try to remember that none of it really mattered. It didn't work every time, of course it didn't, but it provided respite when he needed it. Despite the amount of times he'd already done so, James found himself suddenly itching to commit the sight before him to paper once again. Besides, it never looked the same twice. 

As if to prove his point, a movement down to the right caught his eye. There on the little beach, walking carefully along the brown grey shingle and half lost in the fog of evening drawing in, was Thomas Hamilton. His hands were in the pockets of a coat not at all suited to the weather, deep in thought as he picked his way along the shore. He was a good looking man, which James was self-aware enough to admit, if only to himself. In the odd light made by the last of the weak sun seeping through the cloud, he was made paler, a ghost in the sea spray. The ethereal image was shattered however, when Thomas stumbled slightly on the shifting pebbles, almost ungainly on his long legs. He righted himself quickly, a rueful smile on his face that as far as he knew no one could see. James couldn't help the twitch of a smile of his own, and Gates' words to him in the pub resurfaced - _don't let it bugger up everything else._

James had actually _enjoyed_ talking with him too, before he'd realised who he was and let his temper flare up to hide his shock at an old, reopened hurt. People tended to give James a wide berth, partially due to what John cheerfully referred to a his resting bitch face. But Thomas hadn't, for whatever reason, and instead approached James as easily as if he'd known him for years. He'd smiled so openly and sincerely, that James had found himself hesitating, wondering what the catch could be. Despite himself, a few minutes with Thomas Hamilton had him more relaxed than he'd been in weeks. And then James had shouted at him, for fuck's sake. It all came down to surprise, he supposed, and James didn't like surprises. That a man he'd never met before had approached him with such honest friendliness, that said man had affected him so after only one meeting, and that he really was so different from his father, who'd been yet another person making up the relatively long line of people who'd fucked James over.

An unfamiliar twinge of guilt began to grow in his belly and creep up his throat, and he elected to make amends with him, if it wasn't too late. Hamilton deserved an attempt from him, at least. James would find him in the morning. But for the moment, he just sat and watched Thomas watch the sea, both of them still and poised, as if waiting for something. He felt as though he were intruding, but didn't look away. Eventually, Thomas ambled on and out of sight, but James sat a while longer, imagining the feeling of charcoal between his fingers as he traced what he saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch me try and fit the entire cast in this fic.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning was less grey, still cold and brisk, but the sky blue, and bright enough that Thomas held a hand up to shield his eyes against it as he looked out over the harbour. Without the market the village was less busy, but shops and cafes were open, children playing in the empty roads and people calling out to each other as they passed. The sea was calm, the occasional wave slapping soft at the harbour wall before retreating again. It was nothing compared to the chaos of London he was used to, and as pleasant as it was, Thomas couldn't quite still the worry of what exactly he was meant to do with all the time he suddenly had on his hands. He'd never liked the impotent feeling of just doing nothing, had never been one to take holidays even voluntarily, so to have so much time stretching out in front of him and nothing in particular to fill it with left him distracted and fidgety. And to make matters worse, he still couldn't abide being shut up in that damned house.

"Excuse me?"

He managed not to visibly startle, thank God, and turned to see none other than James McGraw frowning down at him. To Thomas, it looked like an expression of apprehension rather than annoyance, but perhaps that was just the optimist in him. "Oh. Hello."

"Do you mind if I - " he trailed off, gestured to the empty space next to Thomas on the bench.

"Not at all," Thomas said, looking on with interest as the other man sat next to him, broad shoulders hunched, and wondered what exactly was coming next. "I was just thinking about you." Other than the pressing issue of how to fill his suddenly unlimited free time, Thomas had thought of little else but their somewhat bumpy first meeting the day before.

"You were?" James sounded surprised, but there was also an air of mistrust about it, a wariness, as though Thomas could somehow turn it against him.

"Mhmm," Thomas hummed, purposely vague, wanting to hear what James had sought him out to say without prompting him. 

James' jumper of choice that day was a thick cable knit. It was navy blue, again pushed up to his elbows in concession to the sunny morning, his red hair made brighter where the sun caught it. He was gorgeous, frown and all, and Thomas very much hoped he was there to make amends, because he might find it difficult to stay angry at someone so lovely.

"I wanted to apologise," James said, looking away and down to where his hands rested a top his jeans, still frowning, and Thomas knew he'd already forgiven him. But still, he was curious as to what James would say, and it would have been terribly bad form not to hear him out. "What I said to you yesterday wasn't fair," James cleared his throat, twisted his fingers together. "I heard your name, and made the assumption you'd be just like your father," James said, and Thomas felt himself wince, "I... was wrong. You're not him, and I shouldn't have treated you like you were, especially without giving you a chance to defend yourself."

"It's alright," Thomas said, before either of them had the time to take another breath, and James finally lifted his head to meet Thomas' eye. His mouth had fallen slightly open, brow raised and eyes wide - beautifully bright, like sun through green glass - and he very much hoped James said something else before Thomas made a foolish comment about it.

"It is? But I - "

"It's alright," Thomas repeated, "really." He settled further back on the bench, the thread of tension he'd been carrying since their encounter yesterday loosening, melting away into the sun-warmed slats under his back. "You're not the first to do so," he smiled ruefully. Then immediately regretted it, because James' face dropped once more into that guilty, troubled frown. 

"That doesn't make it alright," he said with renewed determination, "I - I'm ashamed to say my temper got the better of me."

"Mr McGraw - "

"James."

"James. You've apologised, and I've accepted. Please let's leave it at that, and start again." It felt vitally important that he says yes.

"...Alright."

"Good. I've one more question though," one he didn't much want to know the answer to, come to that. "What did my father do?"

James' face tightened. "Just a squabble over a building. Planning permission and such, nothing sinister."

Thomas got the impression there was more to it than that, but James obviously didn't want to get into it, and Thomas was willing to let it drop for the time being. Instead he laughed softly, trailing into a groan. "That sounds like him. Well, I'm aware it counts for very little, but I apologise on his behalf, since I doubt he'll ever make the effort himself."

"Thank you," James said, and smiled back. It was only a series of small changes - the barest quirk of his mouth, forehead smoothed, softening of his eyes, but it transformed him. As with Thomas, any tension he'd been holding on to had seeped away now they'd set things straight.

Ordinarily, Thomas might have thrown himself into charming the pants off of him, quite literally, at about this point, but he kept himself in check. The two of them were still on rather under-negotiated ground, and he didn't want to ruin their progress by coming on too strong. It was a thought Thomas rarely had, having no sense of self-preservation or reason to doubt himself when it came to romance, but he was sure of it; he knew he'd rather keep James as a friend in the long term than a lover in the short, if it came to it. But whatever happened, he wanted to know him better.

So he settled for: "shall we go for a walk?"

"Pardon?"

"A walk," Thomas stood. "Max was kind enough to show me around briefly yesterday, but I didn't want to keep her too long. Only if you can spare the time of course."

"No," James hastily stood, "I mean, yes, I have the time."

"Wonderful," Thomas started off around the harbour, James following.

"So you're a fisherman?"

"No, actually," James said. "A man I count as my father - it's his business, really. But he hasn't been well, so I've been taking care of things."

"That's good of you."

James shrugged. "He's family."

"As simple as that?"

"Not quite, but more or less."

Things were definitely not that simple where Thomas and his father were concerned, but it was hardly the moment to say so, given they'd just put all that to rest. "I see."

They talked of lighter things as they made their way around the village, Thomas asking questions and James answering them with a growing smile at his curiosity. Where Max had pointed out businesses and people, cornerstones of the community and all useful in their way, at Thomas' request, James showed him the things that he enjoyed the most. He showed him the pub, the pair of old cannons that sat each side of the harbour wall, and the harbour master's cottage, he pointed out the local gig racing team cutting through the open water, and the rotted remains of an old boat that no one seemed to know the origin of, curved spines of her frame sticking out of the muddy sand like an ancient skeleton.

"Max, of course, you know," James said when they passed a cafe, and Max nodded to them through the window, "as much as you _can_ know Max, at least."

"I like her," Thomas said, and waved, "that's enough for now."

"I have it on good authority that she likes you too," James said, in a way that suggested there was a joke behind it that Thomas wasn't aware of. 

They passed the pub that James had pointed out earlier, people sitting at the benches outside eating bowls of chips or chatting over lunchtime beers. One or two looked up, waved to James, and watched their progress with interest. There was a large PLEASE DON'T FEED THE SEAGULLS sign leaning against the wall, alongside a stack of striped umbrellas taken down for the winter.

"Who's this then?" one man called, eyes narrowed, and hair reaching down past his shoulders.

"None of your fucking business, Vane, that's who," James called back without hesitating, though it was said mildly enough, and the man grinned in return.

"Come now James, that's hardly polite," the man the first was sitting next to spoke up, and Thomas recognised him as Jack, who he'd purchased the gin from the morning before."Mr Hamilton," he said, "good to see you again."

"Thomas, please," he said. 

"Very well. Allow me to introduce my good friends Charles Vane and Anne Bonny, who both possess horrendous manners, but I'm rather fond of all the same."

Both nodded hello, then watched him in silence, taking stock of him, like cats watching a sparrow and deciding whether or not to pounce. They talked a short while, Jack asking Thomas what he thought of the town and such, while the other three seemed content enough just to listen, only chipping in when asked a question. Thomas wasn't sure if it was merely wishful thinking, but James seemed to be standing closer, and he was keenly aware of his presence at his side, the shape of him in his peripheral vision. Their arms brushed once or twice as Thomas gestured while he spoke, but James didn't move away.

"We won't keep you any longer," Jack said after a time, "I'm sure James has plans for you." It was said neutrally, but Thomas couldn't miss the implication behind it, and the way Jack raised an eyebrow.

"About bloody time," Anne mumbled into her beer.

"Oh for fuck's sake," James grumbled from where he stood behind him, though Thomas didn't think he was really meant to hear it.

"Didn't think he'd be your type, McGraw," Charles said, smirking, "but still, a good fuck or two might help you relax."

"Ah," said Thomas, as the penny finally dropped.

"For Christ's sake Vane," James said, voice low and choked, "it isn't like that." The colour was high in his cheeks, and he was looking down at the cobbles, avoiding Thomas' eye. "Mind your own fucking - "

"Our mistake," Jack cut across him brightly, though it was obvious the three of them didn't believe a word, "but no harm done. We'll see you again, Thomas?"

"I - yes," Thomas said, thoroughly wrong-footed by the past thirty seconds, "I should think so. I'll be here for some time."

"Excellent," Jack said, smiled again. "Well then, good afternoon, gentlemen."

Thomas bid them goodbye and James said nothing, just glowered, as the two of them continued on away from the pub and along the seafront. A moment after they'd turned, he distinctly heard a stage whisper of "what the fuck Charles?" in Anne's gruff voice, followed by more bickering that he couldn't make out. 

"Sorry about them," James said, now carefully keeping at least three feet of distance between them as they walked, "fucking idiots."

"They meant no harm," Thomas said, "let them whisper." 

"I just - I'm sorry if they made you uncomfortable."

"They didn't," Thomas said honestly. James grimaced but didn't reply.

Though he still seemed embarrassed by the encounter, it didn't take long for Thomas to coax him back into conversation, asking after the origin of the cannons on the harbour wall as they passed one on the near side. James visibly relaxed as he recounted the story, though he diligently maintained the gap between them as they strolled closer to the sea. Thomas snuck a proper look at him. After the teasing at the pub, he couldn't help but further entertain the thought... 

There was still a pink tinge to his face, though that might have been partly due to the chill in the air coming in off the water. Either way it was surprisingly endearing; he'd not found a tendency to blush so attractive before. James was deep enough into telling the tale that he didn't notice Thomas' scrutiny. He watched his hands as James gestured out to sea; forearms strong and thickly freckled, nails kept short and tidy but with smudges of black worked into the quick. Call him shallow, but Thomas wanted to feel those hands on him, and he wasn't particularly fussed about the context. James turned his head to watch the dark band of cloud blowing back in, his single ear piercing momentarily glinting in the thin sunshine, and Thomas wanted to bite it. He could almost hear Miranda's voice in his head - _'calm yourself Thomas for God's sake, you're behaving like a fruity golden retriever, and it's embarrassing.'_ Thomas was well aware the Miranda in his head was correct, but he couldn't stop himself. James had seemed just as drawn in by his company, had spent most of the morning hanging off Thomas' every word in a way part flattering, part amusing, before amassing questions and counter points of his own with devilish accuracy. 

Before Thomas had even realised it, they'd come back to the bench they'd started from, and spent another half hour or so talking by it, before James said he had some work he needed to see to. But before he went he haltingly asked if Thomas was free the next day - he'd like for him to meet the harbour master, he said. Thomas gave him a resounding yes, and they each parted ways feeling lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: I stop faffing about and things actually happen. This isn't quite doing what I want it to do, and I'm trying to wrangle it back into order.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments/kudos so far, it definitely made me feel better about this fic haa. Hey guys look: PLOT.

Two weeks later, and Thomas was starting to feel quite at home. He knew enough of the residents of the village to wave or call hello if they passed in the street, well enough that he'd stopped by the pub or the cafe when he could, and chatted easily enough with whoever he'd found there. Gates the harbour master proved to be excellent company, and he got on very well with Jack, and Idelle who worked behind the bar. He enjoyed listening to John's stories about the village and the people who called it home, though he wasn't sure how much of it he believed. And nine times out of ten, James was there beside him, rolling his eyes or smiling reluctantly at what they all had to say.  
But despite the obvious attraction on both sides - unless he was reading James very, very wrongly, which he thought unlikely as he considered himself something of an expert - nothing of that sort had happened between them.

"Thomas," Max opened the door to him, smiled warmly, and kissed him on both cheeks before showing him in.

"Hello," he stepped inside. His first impression of the house was that it was unexpectedly homely; he'd expected her to be the sort to prefer the practicality of cool colours, smooth lines and stainless steel fixtures, but he'd misjudged. The sitting room she led him into was painted a deep, earthy red, a carefully arranged mess of large cushions and artfully draped throws, and lit mostly by candles, giving the room the heavy scent of spiced fruit and warm wax. "It's kind of you to have me."

"Not at all," Max said as he sat, and she hung up his coat. "I had no plans for this evening, so honestly, I'm glad you called."

"I know I was rather vague on the phone, but what I wanted to ask - " he cut himself off as he noticed the figure lurking in the doorway. "Oh, hello."

Anne nodded at him warily, obviously not comfortable with him being there. Her jaw was tight as she pulled on her jacket, and Max turned to see what had caused Thomas to interrupt himself.

"Would you excuse me one moment?" She said, sweeping off before Thomas could reply. She murmured something to Anne too low for Thomas to hear, and he carefully looked away under the pretence of studying an intricate wall hanging, which depicted a group of nude women entwined in the throes of passion. It was a beautiful piece, all golds and reds and oranges, even if he didn't much care for the subject matter. Miranda would have liked it. Perhaps he'd ask Max where she'd gotten it... He heard Anne mumble something that sounded like an affirmative, and looked up just in time to see her accept a kiss goodbye from Max; the quickest press of lips, but no less intimate for its brevity. Then she was gone, and Max came back into the sitting room, with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

"If I'd known you had company, I wouldn't have invited myself over," he said apologetically as he took the glass she offered.

"Not at all," she smiled again, curled herself up neatly on the sofa, and sipped at her own glass, "Anne has to work this evening. Besides, I invited you."

"I didn't know you two were together," he'd rather got the impression Anne was seeing Jack, actually.

"Sometimes we are, and sometimes we are not," Max said, unconcerned, "we prefer not to put a name to it. It works for us."

"Fair enough." Thomas understood; he'd been involved in his own fair share of relationships that didn't quite fit into a box.

"Enough about us though," she said, leaning forward in her seat, poised and eager to hear what he had to say, "what was it you wanted to speak with me about?"

"At the risk of sounding ridiculous, I'll keep it short - I have a few questions about someone, and I felt you might be the person to come to. You seem to know everything, as far as life in this village is concerned, so I thought I'd canvas you about him first." It was an uncharacteristically cautious move for him - he tended to wing it and go with his instincts where romance was concerned, and it usually paid off. But James...

"You are correct," she seemed pleased. "If I might hazard a guess as to who you're curious about - James, is it not?"

"You really do know everything," he grimaced.

"Naturally," she said. "I happen to be very good at reading people."

"I thought I was," Thomas said, and took a long sip of wine, "but in this case apparently not. This is lovely by the way," he lifted the wine glass. 

"It's my favourite," Max topped off both of their glasses. "What is it you want to know?"

"This is going to sound horribly juvenile," Thomas started, "but before I make a complete arse of myself and ruin our friendship over such a silly misunderstanding, I need to know - is he even attracted to men?"

"In all the time I've lived here," she said, "I've not known him to go out with anybody. But as far as my knowledge goes, he is amenable to both men and women."

"Right." Thomas didn't wish to know exactly how she'd come by that knowledge, but it was a good start - at least he wasn't barking completely up the wrong tree. 

"Have you made your intentions clear?"

"Not exactly," Thomas said, "though I'm afraid I'm not terribly good at being shy, so any hints I've dropped certainly haven't been subtle. Once or twice, I thought he was looking at me with the same interest, but..." he shrugged. "As I said, I'm not finding him so easy to read as I usually might."

"Thomas," Max said, "I hate to state the obvious, but perhaps you should just talk to him. I'm sure he'd be flattered that you're taking such care, but the time has passed for treading carefully. I know James, and I know he'll appreciate your honesty."

It was well over an hour before Thomas left. Max was a wonderful host and remarkably easy to talk to, which was probably how she seemed to have such a good handle on everyone else's business. It was dark when Thomas began the walk up the hill out of the village and back to the ugly house on the cliff. But even the thought of spending the night once again in the modern monstrosity wasn't enough to dampen his spirits - he was feeling decidedly more hopeful. So naturally, that was when he received a telephone call from his father.

"Good evening, father," he said, once he'd pulled his phone out of his pocket and winced at the caller ID.

"I need you to reply to an email before I can finalise the paperwork on Ashe's proposal," Alfred said curtly, never one to bother with the niceties.

"Very well," Thomas said, thoroughly used to it, "I'm almost back to the house, it won't be a moment."

"Good." There was a pause as his father listened to something in the background. "Your mother wishes to know how you are."

"Well, thank you," Thomas said, aware that would be all the answer his father would require.

"See to that email as quick as you can," Alfred said, in lieu of goodbye, when another thought occurred to Thomas and he hurried to stop him putting the phone down.

"Wait a moment!"

"What?" his father said, clearly irritated to still be having this conversation at all.

"There's a man I've met here called James, James McGraw. I believe you and he might have crossed swords in the past, and I was wondering what about." He'd be lucky to get an answer, but he'd be kicking himself all night if he didn't try.

"I don't know any McGraw," Alfred said, impatient.

Thomas bit his lip to stop himself saying something rude and cause his father to hang up before he got an answer. "Something to do with when you bought the house here, perhaps?" he prompted.

"Oh yes," his father said absently - he was probably reading through some other work related document by now, Thomas not being worthy of his full attention, "there was something... Some local wanted to get planning permission to convert an old shed - terrible eyesore - into a studio, I believe. But it would have ruined the view from the holiday house, so I shut it down as quickly as I was able."

"I see." There was some irony to be found in the fact that the owner of such an ugly house that was barely ever used would refer to a small shed as an 'eyesore,' Thomas thought, but there we are. There was one more question he couldn't prevent slipping out, curiosity piqued, more to himself than to his father on the other end of the phone. "What sort of studio?" What on earth could James want a studio for?

"How would I know?" he bit out, patience finally at its end. "I've more important things to deal with than this, Thomas. Answer that email." And with that, he'd hung up.

"Bloody - " Thomas smothered his frustration with his father, a sensation he was thoroughly used to, and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. 

The pleasant weightlessness he'd felt when he'd left Max's had dissipated completely after the two minute conversation with his father, and he knew there was no way he'd be able to sleep for a long while yet, despite the lateness of the hour. Instead, he continued on past the arse-ugly holiday home - which he now hated on James' behalf as well as his own - and strode on along the cliff path. He didn't know the path well, and it was probably a bit of a foolish decision to wander about the cliff tops in the dark after most of a bottle of (superb) wine, but he needed to work off some of his anger somehow. A brisk walk would be just the thing. He'd have to go and talk to James, of course, now that he knew the whole story. Perhaps they could get coffee in the morning... But before he could sink back into pleasant thoughts of James and the bolstering advice from Max, the path took an unexpected dip to the side and he tripped, coming down hard on his elbow and feeling something in his ankle twist and give out. 

Once he'd come back to his senses, breathing hard and eyes watering with the pain, he carefully prodded at his ankle. Just as he'd feared, he wouldn't be moving by himself any time soon. The wind had picked up, buffeting his face and the chill of it slipping down the neck of his jacket. Fighting back panic, Thomas frantically dug into his pocket for his phone to call for help, only to realise there was no signal at all up on the cliffs. Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would have been posted sooner, but I spilt red wine everywhere - oh the irony - and had to sort it out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throwback to that day a few months ago when I saw this tall, muscly af guy, shirtless, with shorts and yellow wellies, meet up with his equally muscly gig racing crew in the harbour and immediately thought of Billy.

While running things for Hennessy was starting to wear thin, James had to admit he still enjoyed the actual fishing part of it, now and then. At that moment, for example. The night was clear and still, sea lapping at the side of the boat, the lilting pulse of the waves lifting him gently up and down. Above him, the moon was high and full, it's reflection cracked and mottled by the water, and barely a breath of wind. He'd lived by the sea as long as he could remember, first with his grandfather up along the coast, then further down south with Hennessy. He'd grown used to it; the comfort of its weight beneath him, the sound of it at night through an open window as he lay only part awake, the constant rush and retreat of the tide. There was nothing he'd found to date, other than sitting up on the cliffs and sketching what he saw, that brought him more peace than taking a moment to quietly admire the vastness of the ocean at night, alone on the dark water. Alone that was, apart from Billy. 

"Who's that bloke I've seen you with?" Billy asked, as they brought the boat back to shore for the night. Billy was... enormous. Built like a brick shit house and captain of the village's gig racing team, Billy was a lot more sensible and soft-hearted than he looked. He worked for Hennessy too. Though frankly, James wasn't sure _he_ could all that much longer. Despite nights such as that one when he didn't mind helping out, he knew couldn't do it forever - Hennessy would have to either give it up or hand over the reins to someone else. Perhaps Billy even, if he wanted it. 

"None of your business."

"I know," Billy kept his eye on the lights dotting the harbour as they approached. "Who is he?"

James sighed, and ignored him. It'd been a fairly good evening's work, his body heavy with the pleasant ache of a job well done, and a fair catch to show for it, and he was reluctant to shatter the simplicity of the ritual with Billy's pointed questioning.

It was too late though, once Billy'd brought it up, and his mind turned to Thomas. Thomas who, despite their spending more time together in the past fortnight than James had voluntarily spent with anyone in recent memory, he was still unable to figure out. Thomas who James was well on his way to being infatuated with, Thomas who probably felt nothing of the sort in return, and Thomas who would no doubt always think of James as that twat who shouted at him the first time they met. But not all of those things were quite true though; he was beginning to think that Thomas _did_ feel something in return, and James was ignoring the hints in a desperate bid at self-preservation. It was impossible not to wonder if Thomas was interested, what with the outrageous flirting he sent James' way. But he told himself otherwise because all too soon, Thomas would go back to London and his arsehole father, and James would go on as he ever did, left to rot with the fish guts.

"You're thinking too much." Billy said.

"What?"

"You're prone to being over-dramatic, no offence," he added hastily, raised a placating hand, "and you've got that look on your face."

"What look?" said James, indignant.

"Like you're wrestling with your inner demons," Billy said, to which James rolled his eyes - _demons,_ honestly - "when really there's nothing to worry about."

"I'm fine," James said, and something in his tone must have told Billy he was treading thin ice, because he shrugged one heavily muscled shoulder, and fell silent. 

Once back in the harbour, there came the tedious business of unloading the fish from the boat and into the waiting van under the watchful eye of misters Dufresne and De Groot, who would see it got to where it needed to be by morning. James didn't envy their job; he was thoroughly ready for bed, and the thought of the long drive that awaited the two of them made him shudder. 

But by the time he'd bid goodnight to them and Billy and started off towards home, he was feeling wide awake and restless, tiredness dissipated. And when he reached the top of the hill, legs adjusted back to dry land, he knew he was far too het up to rest just yet. Usually if he found himself caught up in such a mood, he'd read or draw a while, but since he was already outdoors... The night was a beautiful one, and the hour not obscenely late, and no harm could come of taking the long way home. It was a familiar route, so much so that despite the darkness of the land and water around him, he knew where he was going, roughly where the path swerved or was interrupted by a rock, or twisted too close to the sea. Walking required little thought on his part, but the motion of it also served to stop him thinking too much. Perfect, really. 

Unfortunately, the cliff path took him right alongside the Hamiltons' ugly holiday home, which admittedly, after spending time with Thomas, James' feelings about were considerably more mixed than they used to be. It loomed, pale and hulking, among the dark rock and rustling grass of the cliffs. There was no sign of anyone inside; the lights all off and windows dark. Thomas was probably asleep. For a moment, he entertained the idea of striding up the path, knocking on the door, and Thomas would open it, rumpled with sleep, and James would - no. It was fanciful. Stupid, and just not him. James carried on walking. 

"Fucking stupid," he grumbled to no one as he stomped away down the next crest in the path. 

Five, maybe ten minutes later, something off to the side of the path caught his eye. A light, small and rectangular, the sickly pale of a phone screen, bobbing about in the dark. Wary, James approached it.

"Who's there?" he called, before good sense caught up with him and he realised the very real possibility somebody had gotten themselves lost, or hurt. He swallowed, and called louder. "Are you alright?"

"James?" came a voice, incredulous, but clear. "Thank fucking God."

James hesitated. He knew the voice, but was having a hard time believing he'd really heard it. "Thomas?"

"Yes, I'm over here. I - " Thomas cut himself off with a hiss of pain, which proved an effective enough way to jerk James out of his confusion.

"Don't move," he snapped, "I'm coming." He made his way towards the light, stumbling once or twice in the twisted grass in his haste to get to him. As he got closer, he could eventually make out Thomas, sprawled on the damp ground, face lit up an odd ghostly grey from the light of his phone.

"Couldn't get any bloody signal," he said in way of explanation, smiling tightly, brow creased in pain.

"Of fucking course you couldn't," James said as he knelt beside him, wet grass and sandy earth soaking through to his knees, "no one can, up here." He was dimly startled by the ferocity of his own voice as he carried on. "What the bloody hell were you doing up here at this time of night?"

"I could ask the same of you." James didn't answer, just glared at him until Thomas sighed and said, "I got a phone call from my father. It put me in rather a bad mood, and I couldn't sleep. Happy?"

"No," James mumbled, and heard Thomas' answering huff of laughter. He sighed. "Where are you hurt? Ankle?"

"Yes," Thomas said, shifting himself gingerly to sit up. "Not broken. And nothing sticking out where it shouldn't. Just sprained, I think. Can't walk, at any rate."

"You idiot," James bit out, "you might have been stuck up here all night." Internally he berated himself for shouting at Thomas, _again,_ but his guilt was dulled by his concern, and that if anything, Thomas seemed to find his irritation amusing. 

"I might have been able to crawl back up to the house eventually," Thomas said, smiling, the ridiculous man, "you didn't give me enough time to test the theory."

"Oh for fuck's sake," James muttered to himself. "Look, my place is closer. If you're sure it's not broken and don't want to go to A&E, sleep there and I'll drive you to the doctor in the morning." It sounded thin reasoning, even to his own ears, but it really would be easier to manoeuvre an injured Thomas the rest of the way down the hill to James' house than back up it to Thomas'. 

"Alright," Thomas looked bemused, and oddly pleased, for a man who'd busted his ankle on a remote cliff top in the middle of the night.

"Good," James said, and held out his hand to help Thomas up.

With a bit of huffing and swearing and trial and error, they managed to get Thomas to his feet - or foot, anyway - and began the slow trudge down the hill. They were thrown a bit off balance due to Thomas being a good head taller than him, which meant taking things even more carefully. Thomas' arm was tight around his middle, gripping hard at his hip for balance, leaning most of his weight against James as the two of them hobbled homeward. James was ashamed to say he was almost enjoying it; Thomas' fingers curled in his jumper, breathing hot and quick against James' cheek, the smell of his no doubt stupidly expensive aftershave, and the way he said sorry every time he stumbled. But then he remembered that Thomas was probably in a lot of pain and possibly shock, and felt a complete git for being so selfishly happy about it. 

"Almost there," he said, though whether it was meant to bolster himself or Thomas, it was hard to say.

"Wonderful," Thomas said, before promptly gasping in pain when he lowered his foot too much and caught a rock.

"Right, that's it," James said, alarmed by how pale Thomas suddenly looked in the gloom, the little pained groans he'd been trying and failing to keep James from hearing. They'd reached more even ground now, just a short stretch of road back down to where James lived at the edge of the village. Thomas' height might have been a problem, but James was sure he could manage... Decision made, he slid the arm that wasn't around Thomas' shoulders under the backs of his knees, and lifted him from the ground.

"Oh - bugger!" Thomas was caught of guard by the sudden movement, and threw his arms around James' neck. "James, this really isn't necessary - "

"Keep still," was all James said in return, breathing more laboured, "we're almost there."

With every step, he was more aware of Thomas' large palm pressed against his shoulder, thumb just brushing the skin above the collar of his jumper, his breath on James' neck. James tightened his grip on the back of Thomas' thigh and tried to walk faster, relieved when the door of his cottage at last came into view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know very little about fishing. He's fishing at night because plot.  
> Also if you hurt your ankle, please do seek medical attention, and don't just hang on and hope James McGraw appears to carry you off to his cottage.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another little one, but one I've been thinking about since I started.

Thomas woke with bright light in his eyes, mouth dry and everything a little bit achy, and the vague notion that he was somewhere he shouldn't have been. It was a familiar sensation, one he'd become rather accustomed to during his years at university, but not one he'd experienced for well over a decade. When he eventually summoned the will to open his eyes, there was another swift moment of disorientation, before he realised he was on James' sofa. Ah. Despite James' insistence that he take the bed when they'd eventually gotten to the cottage last night - and despite the thrill that Thomas had gotten from the mere suggestion - after knocking back some ibuprofen with a sugary cup of tea he'd fallen asleep on the sofa before either of them could do anything about it. Unbidden, he was greeted with the rather fuzzy memory of burying his face into James' soft jumper as he carried - actually _carried_ him - to his home. Though he couldn't properly recall the colour of said jumper, which vexed him more than it should have. He thought it might have been red.   
With the recollection of last night's events, his ankle seemed to throb with even more pain than before, lancing up along his leg when he attempted to move it. Bugger. Probably should have played it safe and gone to hospital. Or perhaps another ibuprofen or two might do the trick... He tugged the thick tartan blanket over his eyes in a bid to keep back the glare of morning light and stay dozing a moment longer; it smelt slightly musty, and of woodsmoke, and the sea. He felt himself slipping back towards sleep, and pulled the blanket further over himself to settle back into the cushions. When he did so however, something shifted on his lap. Freezing, he looked cautiously over the top of the blanket, to see a large ginger cat curled up on his stomach, kneading away at the lumpy tartan wool, and looking quite disgruntled at having been woken up.

"Sorry," he eased himself to sit upright, mindful of both his aching ankle and the cat, to give the latter a gentle scratch behind the ears. Unsurprisingly, the cat said nothing, but looked pleased enough with the attention.

James' sitting room was very cosy; the walls old, uncovered stone, the furniture large and simple and well worn, a spotless woodburner slotted into the fireplace. There was a narrow little window seat across the room, through which he could just make out the sea, grey and flat, seagulls wheeling above it. Everything seemed as though it had it's own place, mercilessly neat and tidy despite the typical quaintness that came hand in hand with a cottage. That was, apart from a desk in the corner. Or Thomas guessed it was a desk at least - it was hard to tell for certain underneath the mountains of piled up paper it was holding.

Despite his reluctance to leave the warmth of the blanket, curiosity got the better of him, and he gently nudged the cat off of his lap. He heaved himself up from the sofa, trying not to jog his ankle as best he could - he didn't wish to look too closely, but it seemed more or less the right colour and only a little swollen - and hopped gingerly over to the desk, leaning on furniture where he could. Wondering in passing whether James would still be willing to drive him to the doctor, he picked up a sheaf of paper. He thumbed carefully through the pages, all of which turned out to be charcoal drawings, mostly boats and fish and seascapes, exquisitely detailed and all certain, sweeping lines that belied the passion behind the work. There were a few portraits too - there was one of John, and of Max, and Mr Gates, and a light haired woman Thomas hadn't met. They must have been James' work... Thomas recalled the black stains under his fingernails and his own father's flippant comment about some kind of studio ruining his view. 

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Oh!" Thomas jumped, and only narrowly avoided both dropping James' work and putting his weight on his bad ankle. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be nosy, I just - " He looked over to see James glaring at him from the doorway, hair still damp and curling from the shower he must have just taken, dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt. Momentarily, he missed the customary jumper, but the t-shirt was rather tight, almost translucent in places where it clung to James' damp skin, and Thomas decided he could live with the substitution. "I - they're really very good." 

"I don't mean _those_ Thomas, for God's sake," James strode over to him, still scowling, hands ineffectually hovering at his sides as if to reach out and catch Thomas should he spontaneously fall over, "you shouldn't be standing, we don't know how bad it is yet."

"Oh, there's no need to fuss," Thomas said, though he was touched James seemed to be so worried for him, "you know, I don't think it's all that bad really."

"Christ," James muttered, and rubbed his hand over his eyes. "I'm still taking you to the doctor."

Thomas smiled, and admired the freckles across James' nose. "Very kind of you. I'm sure I'll survive, but I'm not sure I could get there by myself."

James shook his head, but he didn't look quite so angry any more. "I hope the cat didn't wake you."

"No," Thomas said, "he's a handsome chap, though. What's his name?"

"Doesn't have one," James said, "sodding thing just turned up one night, and didn't leave."

_Lucky him,_ Thomas thought. He looked back down to the sketch in his hand, the sea dark and choppy with broad sweeps of charcoal, a boat with sails taught as it was buffeted back to shore, a tiny, featureless figure at it's helm. "I spoke to my father last night," he said, still looking at the drawing. "That's part of the reason I was out so late. He has a tendency to... rile me up, and I was too out of sorts to go to bed. Thought I'd walk it off. Stupid decision, as it turned out." Perhaps not altogether stupid though, as it had landed him wrapped up in a blanket in James' sitting room. He looked up. "He told me what he did James, I'm so sorry. Your drawings - they're beautiful."

James looked pained. "Max was right Thomas, it's not your fault. You don't need to - " He was cut off when his phone rang. Shooting Thomas an apologetic look, he answered it and stepped quickly into the other room. 

After a hasty breakfast of bacon sandwiches, James had done as he'd promised and driven Thomas to the doctor - another friend of his apparently, a Dr Madi Scott - then dropped him home. Thomas had felt a bit lost, to tell the truth, after he'd left. He'd been expecting, perhaps rather naively, that if anything were to jolt them into sorting things out between them, it would have been the events of the previous night. But then he recalled James helping him in and out of the car, face tight with concern and biting at his thumbnail as he waited for Dr Scott's diagnosis, the smell of his jumpers and the soft sleepy smiles they'd exchanged when they'd said goodnight in his sitting room. Perhaps, he thought as he shuffled about the kitchen making tea, they were a lot closer to something than they had been yesterday after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of Monday, I will have moved into a lovely sparkly new house, but with no internet, so God knows when the next part'll be up. It's a good one though ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have internet back next week yay.

After a few days of sitting around in his father's cold (figuratively of course, the heating system was the best money could buy) and unpleasant holiday home resting his ankle, Thomas was off his head with boredom.The weather was miserable - the entire view out of the living room window was the vast and heavy iron-grey sky, the sea below it just as dark and ill-tempered. By half past two in the afternoon, he'd drunk as much tea as he could bear to and scrolled through the television channels without settling on anything several times over, attempted to sleep and picked up a book only to set it aside again twice. In a fit of frustration that had finally reached its peak, he'd stomped out of the house - as much as one could stomp with a still healing sprained ankle, which turned out to be not very much - and down the hill into the village. He hadn't been certain where he was headed when he'd first set out, merely determined to escape the crushing boredom of recuperation and the leeching blandness of the house, but by the time he'd limped his way through most of the village, it had become apparent where his course lay. He smiled at the realisation, and smiled all the harder when the heavens finally opened and heavy rain began to fall. It was a relief of sorts, after looking up at the oppressive clouds all morning, to finally feel the rain. He hadn't thought to bring a coat, but fuck it, he was already wet anyway. 

He was still grinning five minutes later, drenched from head to foot and hair dripping in his eyes, knocking on James' front door. The man himself opened it, and Thomas watched with amusement as his expression changed from a frown at the interruption, to a smile when he realised it was Thomas, to abject horror at the state he was in. 

"Did you _walk_ here?"

"Yes."

"In the rain?"

"Yes."

"With a sprained ankle?"

"Yes."

"Are you fucking mad?"

"Probably," Thomas said, and rested a hand on the door frame. "May I come in? The aforementioned ankle is twinging a bit."

"I'm not bloody surprised," James muttered as he ushered him inside. He was wearing the green jumper again, which had the benefit of being Thomas' favourite purely because it was the one he'd been wearing when they'd first met. Thomas rarely thought of himself as sentimental, but the odd thing inevitably worked its way through and stuck with him, where he could turn it over and examine it fondly at his leisure.

Ten minutes later, and James had succeeded in making Thomas take off his own sodden jumper so he could put it in front of the wood burner to dry, and bundled him into the same tartan blanket he'd slept under before. There were cat hairs on it, and it smelt like James' shampoo and smoke from the fire. James hovered about him like a concerned parent, face alternating between the familiar glare and the becoming-more-familiar softness, the look that meant he'd hopefully be forgiven before the day was out. He prodded at and fussed over Thomas with such earnestness that Thomas couldn't stop smiling, which only seemed to further convince James he was off his head. 

"Are you sure you don't want to see the doctor again?" James asked for the fourth time.

"Of course not," Thomas said, "I'm on the mend now." There was no call to be taking up Dr Scott's valuable time over something so trifling - and self-inflicted - that would soon right itself. 

"If you say so," James looked unconvinced, as though he might grab Thomas and stuff him into the car before he had the chance to argue further. "Can I get you anything. Painkillers? Tea?"

Thomas accepted the offer of tea, waiting on the sofa as James moved about in the kitchen, immensely glad that his mad fit of boredom had led him there. A feeling that was only heightened when he took a sip of the tea handed to him to discover that James had made it perfectly, sweet and strong, a dash of milk to temper it. They sat for a time, not touching, James covertly watching him as they moved between comfortable silences and the odd quiet exchange. It felt natural, in a way that caught him off guard at first, but after a moment's thought, didn't surprise him at all. Thomas' eye followed each little movement; James licking his upper lip before talking, reaching to tuck a loose curl back behind his ear, absently rubbing at the charcoal forever grained under his fingernails, before his attention was caught by the desk half hidden under James' sketches. Feeling bold, he asked on impulse - "would you draw me?"

James looked up at him sharply. "What?"

Thomas leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand and said, voice purposely low and smooth, "draw me like one of your French girls, James."

He snorted out a laugh and put his face in his hands. "God, you're awful." Despite his assessment, Thomas noted the flush that crept up his neck from under the collar of his jumper, tinging his ears and cheeks pink. It looked particularly lovely against the dark green wool.

"Would you though?" Thomas pressed. "I promise I'll keep my clothes on, if you prefer."

James laughed again, a harsh bark, loud in the wake of their past quiet half hour, and rolled his eyes. "You won't let it be until I do, will you?"

"No," said Thomas, honestly.

"Fine then," James stood, jerked his head towards the window seat, "sit over there." Thomas did so, delighted to have swayed him. James went over to the desk and rummaged in one of the drawers, pulling out a box of charcoal. He grabbed a thick sketchpad from the top of the desk, and sat on the sofa diagonally across from Thomas.

After a tense few minutes of Thomas feeling unable to settle, shifting where he sat and attention skipping between anything in the room that happened to catch it, James abruptly stopped sketching and looked up. "You're a terrible fidget Thomas. Please stop."

"I don't know if I can," Miranda had often berated him for his inability to sit still. But there was perhaps one thing that may have done the trick. "Unless... do you perhaps have a book I could borrow?"

"A book?" 

"Yes. Once I'm into a book, I might as well be made of stone."

James raised an eyebrow, but stood and went to the small but packed full bookcase in the corner of the room. "Any preferences?" he said gruffly.

"Not particularly," Thomas said. Though he was in a rather good mood, and he didn't want anything too woeful to distract him and tarnish the lightness, the contentment of the un-looked for stolen moments with James committing him to paper. "Nothing too intense, I suppose. This time, at least." He smiled when James plucked a well-loved copy of Treasure Island from the shelf and handed it over, and settled in to read. 

It worked, and Thomas was on chapter eleven, 'What I Heard in the Apple Barrel,' before he looked up again. The room was quiet; only the ticking of an unseen clock, the faint noise of gulls outside, and the soft scratch and drag of James' charcoal on the paper. James must have gotten up to switch a lamp on at some point, as the afternoon had whiled away and grown considerably gloomier, and he was now lit a soft yellow as he worked. Instead of going back to his reading, Thomas indulged himself in a brief look, taking in the furrow of James' brow, eyes narrowed as he drew, face thrown into deep shadow and relief by the lamp. His hands were smudged with charcoal, fingertips of his right hand a solid black. James didn't look up, and Thomas went back to his book. After five minutes or so, he realised it was futile. He was simply looking at the words, not reading or processing them, and constantly aware of James' presence across the room, the weight of him, the space he occupied seemed impossible to ignore. He got up. 

Setting the book aside, he moved over to where James sat. It took a moment for James to notice, absorbed in his work as he was, and he blinked away his surprise when he saw Thomas was standing in front of him. "You can't look yet," he said, tilting the sketchbook towards himself like a schoolboy overprotective of his homework, "I'm not finished."

"I won't look," Thomas promised, and took the paper from him to put it carefully on the desk. He knelt down in front of where James sat, bad leg first, placing a hand on each of James' thighs to steady himself and his dodgy ankle, fingers pressing into the denim of his jeans. James watched him, eyes wide and made green-gold by the lamplight, completely at a loss as to what was happening as Thomas knelt on the carpet between his knees. There was a smudge of charcoal at his temple where he'd pushed his hair back, and Thomas could have counted the freckles across his nose. But enough was enough, Thomas thought, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the enthusiasm after the last chapter ;)  
> 10 points to Lena for guessing I would head straight back to James' PoV for the kiss.

Thomas was kissing him. He didn't move for several long moments, too caught up in the fact that it was happening at all, that it was _Thomas'_ lips moving softly against his, that the very thing he'd craved for weeks had finally happened and the world hadn't ended because of it. But then Thomas brought a hand up to rest against his cheek, palm hot and smooth, and good sense kicked back in and he returned the kiss. He opened his mouth to him, tasting tea, and Thomas sucked gently on his lower lip. The tug of Thomas' teeth and the feel of his hands on James' face snapped him fully out of his startled trance, and he reached to bring his hands to Thomas' back, fingers smoothing over his shoulder blades to pull him closer.  
They pulled apart to breathe, and he brought his hands forward to cup Thomas' face, their foreheads pressed together and the brittle scent of charcoal in his nose. He opened his eyes to see Thomas watching him, expectant and half-smiling, smudge of black across his cheek where James had touched him with his charcoal covered fingers. He was beautiful, and James opened his mouth to tell him so.

"You - "

Then Thomas sneezed. Thankfully he'd had enough presence of mind to cover his mouth.

"Fuck," James immediately reached up to gingerly feel his forehead, "you have a fucking cold and a broken ankle and I - " _was too busy thinking about how much I'd like to kiss you forever_ \- "sorry."

"It's not broken," Thomas said, still smiling, and took James' hand from his forehead to kiss it, lips dry and soft on his knuckles, "it's sprained." 

"A technicality," James said, and stood up, "you shouldn't have walked here in the sodding rain, you ridiculous man." He could hear the softness in his own voice, the creeping fondness, the twitch of a smile at his mouth despite his worry. "Get back on that sofa and rest. I'll get you some ibuprofen and more tea." As much as he would've liked to have kissed him again, Thomas wasn't well and he wasn't about to put his own selfish wants before that.

Despite Thomas' laughing insistence that he was in fact fine, he gave in to James' demands with good grace, and let himself be bundled up on the sofa again, the old tartan blanket drawn around his shoulders. Once he was settled, James turned to add another log to the wood burner, opening up the vent so the flames sprung up with renewed vigour, casting the room in flickering orange.

"James?"

"Mm?" James wiped the worst of the charcoal from his hands with the rag he used to open the wood burner with when it grew too hot to touch.

"Sit with me?"

"...Alright."

He turned to see that Thomas had slid back until he was pressed against the back of the sofa, leaving a gap in front of him. James rolled his eyes, though it was mostly just for show, and lay alongside him, Thomas pressed along his back and draping the blanket over them both. He tutted as he felt Thomas put an arm around him, palm on James' belly to keep him close, slipping a cold foot between his ankles.

"That's not your bad - ?"

"No," Thomas headed him off, "my _slightly_ injured ankle is out of harms way."

James grumbled. "It's meant to be me looking after you, you know," he said, though he was enjoying the warmth of Thomas' long body all along his back and arse and legs, the slow, soothing stroking of his hand on his belly.

Thomas hummed, and pressed a barely there kiss below his ear. "Who says we can't both look after each other?"

For lack of a better reply, James just told him he was ridiculous again, and stole a kiss.

They spent the remainder of the afternoon cuddled up close on James' sofa, the television playing old repeats of Time Team on Channel 4 in the background, punctuated by loud and premature adverts for Christmas sales that made James groan and Thomas laugh at him for it. At some point the cat showed up, and Thomas made a fuss of him while James sighed and left the warmth of their nest on the sofa to get the ginger tomcat some dinner. Though James was anxious to see him get some rest, Thomas was easily, embarrassingly, able to cajole him into lengthy, languid kisses, where he forgot everything that wasn't Thomas' mouth on his, his arms around him, the weight of him holding him down.  
The evening drew in, cold and dark and thick against the window panes, kept at bay by the crackling and glowing of the wood burner, and James fell asleep with Thomas' deep breaths rising even against his back and tickling his neck, and the heave and rumble of the sea outside.

 

***

 

"We should have started for home sooner," Billy called above the rising wind.

"I know," James said, irritated, and probably too low for Billy to hear over the crashing waters, as he fought to keep the boat on course.

The afternoon had grown dark and the evening drawn in fast, the bad weather that had been forecast blowing in alarmingly quickly. He'd known it was likely to take a turn for the worse, but he hadn't been expecting it so soon, so he and Billy had headed out to make a catch anyway, with the expectation of being back home and dry well before the storm hit in full force. But unfortunately that wasn't the case, and the boat was buffeted about all over the place despite James' best efforts, wind and rain coming in for the night with gleeful violence.

"Bollocks," he heard a thump and a curse as Billy lost his footing somewhere behind him.

"Fucking careful, Billy!" he bellowed, eye fixed on the barely visible spackle of yellow light that was the harbour and home.

"I didn't do it on fucking purpose!" came the frustrated reply.

James laughed, perhaps a little manically, and braced himself against the next onslaught of wind and chilling sheet of rain, dark spray careering up the side of the boat. His hair was plastered to his face and in his eyes, but visibility was getting so bad it made little difference. He was starting to lose the feeling in his hands. "All hands on deck, Mr Bones!"

The waves were tricky, and it took them great deal longer than it would have normally, but they finally managed to ease the little boat back into the relative safety of the harbour walls, the pair of them grim and breathing hard as they moored her. 

"Pub?" James said when they were both off the boat and standing on the harbour wall. The fairy lights that ringed the harbour were being thrown about by the gale, the pub sign clanging loudly where it swung, dark waters thrown against the stone walls.

Billy blinked at him in disbelief, rain dripping in his eyes, before he snorted with resigned laughter. "Fine. I don't know why I'm surprised."

"I need a drink after that mess." Fuck, did he need one. Also Billy didn't drink, which gave James the perfect excuse to drink his share too. Billy could keep his orange juice. 

The warm, beery air of the pub was heaven after the relentless wind and rain, the hum of chatter and glow from the mess of candles on each of the tables, the spit and crackle of the fireplace. James shook his wet hair from his eyes and hung his dripping coat up by the door, Billy moving off to get the first round in, God bless him. 

The pub was full, as it ever was, and no doubt it wouldn't be long before John or Jack or Gates or whoever else would fall into place next to him, or call from the end of the bar to ask after his rather unsuccessful jaunt out to sea that evening. He glanced up to see if Billy'd ordered yet, to see that he'd been correct in the assumption that Jack would be there - he was somewhat of a fixture - leaning against the bar and talking to - 

"Thomas," James said before he could stop himself, surprised to see him there.

Thomas was marginally less graceful than usual when he spotted James and scrambled off the bar stool, cutting Jack off mid-sentence and leaving him to watch with amusement. "God, James," he said as he hurried over to him, hesitating for the shortest of moments before he ran his hands along James' arms as if to reassure himself he was truly there, "are you alright?"

"Of course I am," James said, taken aback by his genuine concern, still dripping on the carpet. He could practically hear Idelle rolling her eyes and glaring at the puddle he was leaving. 

"It's bloody awful out there, and Gates said you were fishing and I - I was worried."

"Yes, yes I'm fine," James was bemused and a little touched by Thomas' strong reaction, "nothing I haven't done before."

"You look terrible."

James laughed, but it was cut off when Thomas grabbed him to reel him into a kiss, a hard and determined crush of lips that James returned with enthusiasm. His sopping wet jumper was seeping cold rainwater through to Thomas' shirt, but it was hard to focus on that with Thomas' fingers tangled in his wet hair, the other hand digging hard into the small of his back to keep him as close as possible, as though he might melt away. They broke apart, both grinning and breathing hot and fast, as the entire pub burst into a chorus of whistles and catcalling and lewd suggestions, James still grinning as he told the lot of them to fuck off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was so cheesy.  
> Time Team was the shit guys.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so short - it was a struggle to get done.

To Thomas' delight, it had been James who'd taken his hand and suggested they leave the pub. A sentiment Thomas heartily approved of, though it was a request he'd assumed that he'd be making of James, and not the other way around. They'd made a swift exit from the pub after that, to another round of cheers and a lewd suggestion from John that Thomas thought was actually a rather good idea. Going by the way James' hand tightened on Thomas' and the widening of his eyes, Thomas guessed he did too, although he gleefully shouted something equally rude in John's direction as he pulled his sodden coat back on for good measure. 

An uneventful walk back to James' house later - unless one counted a juvenile and thoroughly enjoyable kiss underneath an awning when they stopped to shelter from the rain an event - Thomas was perched on the edge of the sofa, cradling a cup of tea that for once in his life he didn't particularly wish to drink. He'd been waiting for what felt an eternity for James to finish in the shower. Under any other circumstances, his patience might not have stretched so far, and he would have joined him in the bathroom, but he wanted James to warm up properly without any distraction. And he knew himself well enough to know he'd prove to be a terrible one. Desire aside, he really had been worried about James, still was worried he'd get ill if things... _progressed_ before he'd had a chance to wash away the worst of the cold and rain and sea water and get dried off. 

"Thomas?"

He looked up sharply, peering over the top of the mug clasped between his too-hot hands. James was standing in the living room doorway, wearing only a tentative expression and a white towel gripped loose around his waist. After a quick study - purely out of concern for his welfare of course - Thomas deemed him suitably warmed up after his drenching from the storm; his chest and face were scrubbed and flushed pink from hot water. He swallowed. 

"Better?"

"Yes."

"You're not dressed."

"No."

Fortunate really, since Thomas didn't plan on him being any sort of clothed much longer, be it in the towel or something more substantial. He stood and set the mug aside, unable to stop the pleased little smile spreading across his face as he moved to stand in front of James. He paused with his hand lifted, giving James the opportunity to deny him permission to touch if he wished, but James' breath hitched audibly, and he leaned forward ever so slightly, the minute movement all the indication Thomas needed. James' skin was still heated from the shower, hot under Thomas' fingertips as he ran them up James' chest, rubbed his palms softly along his arms, over the fine hair and freckles made darker with the warmth, up to clasp at the back of his neck, everywhere he could reach. He used the light grasp he had on the back of James' neck to pull him close, brush their lips together, but instead of kissing him properly, he ducked to mouth at James' neck, smiling at the huff of frustration it caused. The smell of his skin drove Thomas to distraction; the familiar and vaguely herbal shampoo, but the tang of sea salt and night air still lingering despite the shower, and he bit softly just below James' jaw. 

_"Fuck,_ Thomas," James all but growled, and hauled him up for a proper kiss, Thomas unable to stop himself laughing against his mouth.

"Sorry," he said, not sorry in the least, "you looked delicious." 

"God," James' words were pressed against Thomas's lips between kisses, "the things you fucking say."

Before Thomas could come up with a clever retort, James had dragged the pair of them over to the sofa. He sat down heavily and pulled Thomas with him, the two of them landing tangled and short of breath. The cat shot them an indignant look from where he was curled up by the fireplace, and scooted off into the kitchen. 

Thomas laughed, and kissed James' nose. "Probably for the best. A friend of mine once had a cat, a Siamese, who used to stare at me solidly for the entirety of my visits. Terribly off-putting."

"Friend?" James said, tilted his head back to nip at Thomas neck. The fire crackled and spat sparks.

"Miranda, my oldest friend. I think you'd like her," he said. "And I'd also like to to take this moment to clarify - said visits consisted exclusively of slagging off my father and her attempting to persuade me to take a holiday. Nothing more risque. Well," he amended, "not since we were seventeen." 

"Thomas?"

"Mm?"

James wrapped his fingers around Thomas' wrist, and moved his hand back to touch James' knee, guiding it slowly further up his leg and under the towel, only letting go when it rested high up on his thigh, just edging onto the curve of his backside, and looked up at Thomas meaningfully.

Thomas blinked at him. "God, you're a wonder." His hand twitched, tightened on James' upper leg.

James grinned, wide and sharp, though the happy little flush Thomas' words had brought to his face was still evident. "Come here." 

Thomas did so, with enthusiasm, pressing hard and quick kisses to James' lips along his jaw, up to his ear to tease at that damnably distracting little gold earring. James hissed and swore, arched up into him. With one last nip at the piercing - he filed away its apparent sensitivity for later use - Thomas kissed his way down the heated skin of James' freckled chest. Under normal circumstances, he might have dragged out the teasing a little more, but... well, James wasn't a normal circumstance was he. He paused when he reached James' hip bone, just before the edge of the towel, and looked up to see James watching him. He lifted his eyebrow, just a fraction, a question and a challenge, and Thomas moved his hands to the knot in the fabric. Still watching James' face, Thomas tugged the towel loose, uncovered him. Thomas had had his mouth on him barely a minute before James muttered something incomprehensible and eased him off again, pulling at Thomas' shirt. By the time he'd gotten Thomas out of his clothes, they were off the sofa and on to the floor, jostling his desk and knocking things to the carpet in the process. 

Later on, when James had fallen asleep and Thomas was fast approaching it himself, Thomas traced the smudges of charcoal on James' arms, dark in the last light of the fire. A box of charcoal was apparently among the things they'd knocked to the floor, and a fair bit of it was now smudged over their skin, and ground into the carpet. Thomas couldn't bring himself to be too sorry about it though; it was a problem for tomorrow. He heard the sea, rushing and crashing in the dark outside, pulled the sleepy weight of James body closer, and let his eyes fall shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Yeah it's a little fade to black. The reason being that I've kinda lost steam for this fic, and if I try and force myself to include smut I'll just keep putting it off and the fic won't get finished at all. Also I didn't feel like it needed to get full on porny this time around. One part left to wrap things up :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.   
> It got unintentionally low key Christmassy, woops. I reckon it's because I haven't written any actual Christmas fic yet this year, so it's starting to seep out in other places.

In general, Thomas didn't much care for Christmas parties, particularly the work-related ones he was obliged to attend with his father. They were just more of the same; a display of excess and shameless one-upping each other, a chance to settle any last minute business before the holidays. The silver lining was that Miranda was nearly always willing and able to attend as his plus-one, meaning that at the very least he had someone to laugh about it all with afterwards. But the party he was attending that evening was different for a number of reasons. Firstly, the guests actually appeared to be having fun. Secondly, there was very little business talk. And thirdly, it was _his_ turn to be the plus-one. James' plus one. 

"Do you know," Thomas said, as James got them a drink from the open bar, "I always thought that green jumper of yours was my favourite thing on you. But this," he ran his eye deliberately over James once again, "has provided some very stiff competition."

James snorted in amusement as he handed Thomas a glass, looking down at his uncharacteristically smart shirt and trousers with a touch of self-consciousness. "Well, get your fill while you can," he said, "I'll be back in the jumper the moment we get home."

"Not the _very_ moment we get home, surely," Thomas raised an eyebrow, smirking as he took a sip of his drink. It was mulled wine, not something he usually cared for, but being back with James, thinking of the gifts he had for him smuggled away in his suitcase, and the festive atmosphere of the party had worked their magic. It was good too; sweet and rich, the tang of orange and spices filling his nose and thick on his tongue.

"Good grief," James mumbled into his whisky, and made an effort to look annoyed with him that was half-hearted at best. Thomas had only been able to get the train down from London that very afternoon, what with work and such, meaning they'd only had time for a few breathless kisses before he'd needed to shower and change ready for the party. They'd not seen each other for three weeks, and though James was making a show of disparaging Thomas' randy puppy behaviour, it was clear he was just as desperate as Thomas was. 

"Thomas!" Before Thomas could actually start timing how long it took him to make James blush, Max came over to say hello, "you are back." She kissed him on the cheek, and nodded hello to James. 

"Hullo Max," he smiled, "how've you been?"

"Well, thank you. We've all missed you," she smirked pointedly at James, "some of us more than others."

Thomas grinned, reached down to lace his fingers through James', stifling a laugh at the glare he shot Max. "I've missed being here too."

"You're staying at your father's house?"

"Lord no," Thomas said, grimacing at the mere thought of spending his visit in that chilly monstrosity, "I'm staying with James, actually."

"Good," she smiled at them, so sincerely that it threw him off balance for a moment. "Now, if you'll excuse me I promised Anne a drink. You'll come for coffee tomorrow, yes?"

"Of course."

"Good," she repeated, before moving off to the bar. "Enjoy your evening, boys."

"I don't know why you don't like her," Thomas said, "she's perfectly nice."

"I never said I didn't like her," James said stiffly, "and I certainly admire all she's done here. But she's too observant. It's unnerving."

"You're ridiculous," Thomas said, pressed a quick, smiling kiss to the corner of James' mouth that had James leaning after him for another. "Come on," Thomas pulled away reluctantly, but left his hand in James', "we'd better go and say hello to everybody, or they'll have my head."

Almost everyone that Thomas had met on his previous visit was present. Gates and Billy, the former wearing a Santa hat, were laughing at the bar with Idelle, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying an evening spent on the other side of the bar for a change. John and his wife - who turned out to be the doctor who'd seen to Thomas' ankle - dancing exuberantly to Mariah Carey on the small dance floor, Charles Vane smoking on the balcony wreathed in fairy lights, while Anne glared at nothing in particular and Jack talked at them both. The Christmas party was an annual thing put on by the Guthrie family, so he was told, a chance for all the local business owners and people in the town to get together for a catch up and a well-deserved night out. And while several guests were using it as an opportunity to boost their business - he'd already overheard Jack trying to wrangle a new buyer for his gin - it was by no means the two-faced, cut-throat sort of business conducted at his father's Christmas functions.   
The Guthries themselves owned something of a holiday home empire, James had informed him with grim amusement, buying and selling all over the county. Thomas' father had probably done business with them at some point, though it wasn't a name he recalled. Richard Guthrie seemed about as snide and unpleasant as Thomas' own father, but his daughter Eleanor was another matter. She was polite, if a little formal, when James introduced them, but she warmed considerably when Thomas made it clear he was there as James' partner, and kissed them both on the cheek before she whirled away to greet some late arrivals. 

"She's giving me a loan," James said out of nowhere, three quarters of an hour and two drinks later.

"What?" said Thomas, who'd been watching Charles and Billy attempting to out-drink each other at the bar, and was completely baffled as to what James was talking about. "Who?"

"Eleanor," he said, drink clasped between his hands and, though he met Thomas' eye, looking apprehensive. "It's early days, but she wants to branch away from her father's business. She and Max are starting up a project to get more local businesses up and running and hopefully keeping them that way," he reached to tuck his hair behind his ear, a nervous tic of sorts. His fingernails were still ingrained with charcoal, as they always had been and most likely always would be. "Honestly I'm not certain my work counts as a local business, but she's offered me the chance to find a proper studio, and I'm going to take it."

"James, that's wonderful," he said, only the drink in his hand stopping him from flinging his arms around him. He compromised by using his free hand to pull James in for a brief, delighted kiss. "You absolutely deserve it, it's perfect, I - I'm only sorry it's taken so long. No thanks to my father."

James scoffed. "Never mind him. Would you - would you mind looking through some of the places Eleanor has lined up with me tomorrow? I'd appreciate your opinion."

"Of course," Thomas said. Honestly, James would probably have more trouble _stopping_ him from giving his opinion, rather than getting it in the first place.

"Thank you," he seemed lighter now that he'd told Thomas his news, and smiled, wide and happy, as he threw back the last of his drink. "Dance with me?"

"Always," Thomas said, and let himself be pulled gently onto the dance floor, James' hand warm and heavy at his waist. They swayed together, neither of them adept enough to attempt the proper steps, though it didn't much matter. It wasn't that formal a party, and most other couples were dancing in a similar manner. Someone waved to catch his eye, and he shared a brief smile with Max, who'd managed to persuade a rather stiff looking Anne into a dance, before turning his attention back to James.

"Thomas?"

"Mm?"

"I'm glad your father's an arsehole who owns the ugliest fucking holiday home in a twenty mile radius."

"...You say the sweetest things, James." 

"I know," he said, and Thomas laughed softly. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm glad you're here."

"Honestly," Thomas said, brought a hand up to rest on James' face, thumb stroking his cheek, "there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ridiculous fluffy ending you say? You're welcome.  
> As always, thanks for reading guys. This was a really self-indulgent one, hope you've enjoyed it :)


End file.
